


Little Cardinals

by bluetoast



Series: Birds of a Feather [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Abuse, Deaf Character, Deaf Dean Winchester, F/M, Gen, John Winchester's Bad Parenting, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't mind being deaf, not really.  When Baby Sammy is born, however - everything seems to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Cardinals

Being deaf isn't all that bad. Since he's never known anything different, it isn't as of Dean has any real problem with not hearing – most of the time. He doesn't need to hear his mommy's voice to know she loves him. Mom smells of a wonderful perfume of soap and sugar. Mom cuts the crust of his sandwiches without even asking, can spread the peanut butter all the way to the edge of the bread so there's not a spot that's uncovered. He and mom spend hours learning how to talk with their hands. Mom's been tired lately – Dean figures that's because she's going to have a baby. So he does some studying on his own – Mom found a great book that has pictures of objects with the sign for them on the next page. 

Dad always smells of axle grease and coffee. Even after he comes home from work, showers and changes clothes, he still smells the same. Dad loves him, Dean's pretty sure about that. He doesn't sign nearly as well as Mom does, but Dean figures that's because Dad doesn't have as much time to practice. When Dad works on the car, he has Dean help him. He may not be able to hear the motor of the Impala, but he's put his hands against the side of the car and he's felt it rumble and growl under his palms with the strength of a thunderstorm. 

Dean already loves his little brother or sister, and they're not even born yet. Mom says that the baby's name is either Samantha or Samuel, depending on what it is. He watched his dad paint the room down the hall from his a pale green color and then re-sand Dean's old crib. The baby would be here in just a few weeks, and Dean can't wait to meet his sibling. He knows that babies need a lot of attention, Mom had told him. He would have to be patient and understanding for a little while. Dean could do that. At least his parents wouldn't have to tell him to be quiet. 

Dean was very good at being quiet.

*

Sammy smells like baby powder and milk. He's a round little thing with almost no hair. Dean's sort of glad he's deaf when he sits in the family room, out of the way with his cars, while his parents try to soothe Sammy's howls. Judging from how red he gets, and how his lips contort, Dean imagines Sammy's cry sounds like a siren. He knows that cried too, probably in the exact same way, only he couldn't hear his parent's voice as they rocked him. He's not bothered by the attention his brother's getting – he's had four whole years with their mom and dad and now Sammy gets to have a good portion of the attention.

But when he sees his dad bark at him – pointing to the stairs, Dean's confused and a little scared. What had he done wrong? A moment later, Dad picks up his police car in one hand, grabs his wrist with the other and yanks him to the steps. Somehow, Dean suddenly gets it. His car is what's making Sammy scream so much. He needs to go away. He takes his car back and mounts the stairs and goes to his room.

He doesn't look back because he doesn't want Dad seeing the tears in his eyes. He's a big boy. Big boys don't cry.

*

Baby Sammy has been here for a month and Dean's starting to feel like a shadow. Mommy's been forgetting to cut the crusts of his sandwiches, even though she does slice them in half, she doesn't sit with him at the table anymore when he eats. She's too busy taking care of Sammy. When Dad comes home, he's too tired to do anything with Dean. After dinner and he's helped dry the plastic dishes they've been using for a while, because it's easier to clean than the regular kind, Dean's growing accustomed to walking himself upstairs, brushing his teeth and crawling into his bed. Twice a week Dad comes up with him and gives him a quick bath, but that's about it. 

It's not Sammy's fault. Sammy's a baby, babies need attention. 

It can't be Mommy's fault she's so worn out at the end of the day that she can't spend time with him. Dean's been doing his best to stay out of her way, to stay quiet and to not be any trouble. He hasn't even told her that he's certain there's something in his closet – and he doesn't want to tell Dad about the thing, because Dad's tired too. 

It's not Dad's fault. Dad has to work and when he comes home, he's tired. He doesn't have time to play ball with Dean in the yard, he has help Mommy. 

Dean misses Nana. Nana was Dad's mommy and she'd been wonderful. She gave him bear hugs and she'd have him help her bake cookies. Nana who'd known how to sign almost as long as he had – she told him that her mom – Great Nana Worcester, had been deaf too. That's how Nana had known how to sign. Nana was his third favorite person in the world, after Mommy and Daddy. But last summer, Nana had gotten really sick and gone to Heaven. Dean wishes Nana was still here. If there were _three_ grown-ups in the house instead of just two, surely one of them could spend some time with him.

He rests his head on his knee as he sits at his desk, playing _quietly_ because there's nothing else he can do, coloring a picture for the fridge. He's made one every other day and put it up, but mommy hasn't said anything about any of them, so he's taken some of them back and thrown away others – but he keeps replacing them, hoping someone would notice. 

He knew that babies needed attention – but did Sammy need _all_ of the attention?

*

Mary doesn't remember being this exhausted when Dean was a newborn. Sammy cried inconsolably for hours on end – crying seemed to be his normal mood. Where Dean took to the whole sleeping thing right away, Sammy was fussy and hated to be put down. It's in the middle of the afternoon, in June – and both boys are sleeping. At least, she thinks Dean's sleeping – he was lying in his bed when she checked on him after putting Sammy down. Her little angel had been doing such a good job of not playing with his loud toys – though it broke her heart to see his favorite toy of all, a fire truck, sitting immobile on his shelf. She couldn't remember the last time she's seen her eldest push that thing around the family room rug. In fact, she's not seen much of Dean, period. He's showed up at meals and on occasion, she's seen him push one lone quiet car around the rug in the family room, but that was it. 

Realization slams into her with all the force of a hurricane. 

She'd been neglecting Dean. Almost as if he knew she was thinking about him, her eldest shuffled into the kitchen, pulled a picture of some trees she'd just noticed off the fridge and replaces it with a new piece of art. The old picture goes straight into the trash, right on top wet garbage – there'd been some scary looking vegetables in the crisper drawer in the fridge – and Dean walks back out of the room without even looking at her.

Mary looked back at the fridge and nearly started to cry. Four stick figures are in the picture – a family portrait, she supposed. She, John and Baby Sammy are on one side – with squiggles around them that she's guessing are meant to be words. Dean's figure stands alone, holding something that could be a crayon or even a machete for all she knew (not that Dean knows what that is, and so help her she'll cut out her own lungs before he ever holds one), looking over at the other three. 

Swallowing, she rose from her chair and went upstairs, tired as she was. The door to Dean's room is partially closed and she can look into see the boy lying down on his bed, his shoulders shaking. She doesn't hesitate, she walks into the room and sits down on the bed, the movement causing him to turn and look at her.

Tears stain his freckled cheeks and while his face is only four, Mary could swear those eyes of his look fifty. She knows how Dean's voice sounds. It's a broken sounding thing, with no sense of key or pitch – John referred to his cries as a motor that couldn't turn over. She set a hand on cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb. She knows there's damage done when he looks away from her, biting his lip. It gets worse when she looks down at Dean's wrists – they were bruised. Old bruises, but still bruises. Who the hell had done that to him? _Well, Mary Rebbecca, it isn't rocket science. If you didn't do it and Sammy couldn't do it, who's left?_ The voice of her dad sounded in her mind and suddenly she goes from scared to down right furious. When the hell had John done this to Dean? And why?

Dean's scared. Mommy's in his room and he doesn't know why. She's not been in his room in a long time. Did he wake up Sammy? No, if Sammy was awake Mommy would be taking care of him. He felt he should just pull away, because it's pretty obvious he's done _something_ wrong, because mommy's eyes are bright with tears, but at the same time, she looked mad. If Dad came home and found out that he'd made Mommy cry, he'd be in _so_ much trouble. He sniffled and glanced at his closet. He could go in there and stay. That'd be out of the way. He ducked his head and pushed himself off of the bed. The thing in there only came out at night anyway.

Mary was on her feet before she even registered Dean had stood up. She rounded the bed and pulled him tightly into her arms, hugging him. She heard him whimper and she only held him tighter, rubbing his back in slow circles,the same motion that failed so far to soothe his little brother always worked wonders with Dean. She felt her son's arms come up and wrap around her neck and she smiled. There was a brush of lips on her cheek and she pulled away just enough for Dean to sign to her. _"I love you, Mommy."_

She smiled in response and answered him in kind. _"I love you too, Dean."_ She ruffled his hair and stood up, holding his hand as they sat down on the bed. She didn't feel like she entirely deserved the second hug her son gave her, wrapping his small arms around her waist, his head against her chest. Mary sighed and kissed the top of Dean's head, smoothing the hair she'd just mussed. She just hoped Sammy would sleep through the talk she was going to have with John about the bruises on Dean.

She also hoped she wouldn't find any more – she'd be giving Dean a bath tonight just to make sure.

If John valued his life, there better not be any more. Mary Campbell Winchester might be out of practice, but she still knew how to kill a lot of nasty things – and taking down a human was much easier than a vampire.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even started with the feels yet.


End file.
